


Your truth, my truth

by CrazyEyedMustafa



Category: Marathon (Video Games)
Genre: Eventual brawl (I promise), Gen, M/M, Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2020-10-30 07:43:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20767832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyEyedMustafa/pseuds/CrazyEyedMustafa
Summary: After quite a draining series of events, Vince decides to take Durandal out to relax for once. Unbeknownst to him, someone has taken notice.(Inspired by this beautiful piecehttps://www.deviantart.com/general-radix/art/Comm-Confrontation-813655795)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GeneralRADIX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeneralRADIX/gifts).

> lil crossover story im working on for Radix. Feedback is appreciated. Quality tapers off near the end. Multi chapter

In the rolling sea of human travelers, Roland sees only aliens. Some that pass by may carry themselves as usual, their sweat and stench weeding into his senses, and shouted words of frustration and elation vibrate his ears. They stumble, they smile, and clasp hands. All of their words combine into an anthem of noise, every word forming into a cacophonous chatter. They might as well be speaking an alien language. Preferring rather to not meddle with the crowd, he placed himself aside from the diffusing populace, some distance away from the stationary spacecrafts. Sitting on a bench atop a slight hill, he pushes away his own sense of nausea, and carefully examines each and every passing face, waiting.

Unfortunately, he is not alone.

The other’s silence is deafening. Those disgustingly human eyes pretend to look away, but he knows they’re watching his every move. A slight cloak hangs over Roland’s form, masking the armor underneath. For once, he is making the active effort of being “relaxed,” requiring a significant amount of effort to do so. Normally he would never consider going incognito, but it’s necessary considering the circumstances, and whose notice he is trying to avoid. The fool beside him choose otherwise, and came in his casual set of bright, accented red clothes. The fact that he’s even trying to be fashionable boggles Roland’s mind, but he pushes that thought away to maintain his focus.

The thought came swinging back with force.

“Do you even know what to look for?”

A good question, Roland admits. “Tall bastard in armor.”

The other snorts in amusement. “How are you so sure he’s even here?”

“I’d recognize that ship from anywhere.” He didn’t even have to get close then; the burning red insignia on it’s side was all he needed to see. That, and the location from where it fled.

“And what if it is your fated  _ Rozinante _ ? What then?”

Roland pulls back his thin hood and looks to his left to see Joyeuse staring with the same blank look since he first acquired his android body. No matter how many times he tried to drill it in the bastard’s head, the AI seemed incomprehensible to human quirks. 

“I told you, people don’t like staring.”

“I am trying, Roland.”

“Doesn’t really seem like it,” he mutters. He pulls the hood back on, focusing back on the oncoming crowd. He grinds his teeth in frustration, irritated at missing some of the people.

Roland can’t see it, but he knows that Joyeuse is giving him one of his “looks.” The kind that’s supposed to make him sad and regret his words. Truth be told, it would’ve worked a while ago. Now he knows it’s bullshit. 

“I worry for you,” Joyeuse says softly. “You know that, right?”

Roland sighs, “I’ve heard this speech already, Joy.”

“Yes, you have. But clearly your gifted mind is wasted on thoughts elsewhere.”

Roland is taken aback with mock offense. “You saying I ignore you? I’m hurt you’d suggest such a thing.” He scratches his growing stubble, the heat irritating his skin. “I need this, Joy. Trust me, I won’t do anything crazy. I just need to see him for myself.” He needs to see if his face is being worn by another.

“I know. That’s why I’m worried,” he says gravely. 

Something in Roland whispers, no,  _ screams _ to listen to his friend, a friend he never would never admit to outloud, to get up and leave. But the nagging itch inside refuses to let go, pulling on his lungs to stay, to wait. 

He says to Joyeuse in aside, “The ship, you sure it’s here?”

“I was sure the last 6 times, and I’m sure again.”

“Then what the hell is taking—” A brief glint of light catches his attention, and Roland snaps his eyes on the source. 

Joyeuse raises his voice, “I see—”

“Don’t move,” Roland whispers. He motions a hand toward Joyeuse, signalling him to stay down. Joyeuse raises an eyebrow, but Roland doesn’t see it. He watches an armored figure wade through the wave of people, making sure not to run into anyone. Roland recognizes that armor immediately, slightly less bulky than his own, but undeniably identical in design. The one wearing it is bearing a bright smile, brighter than Roland could ever have. His hair is brown and slicked back, grown out for style. 

Roland feels the knot in his chest unwind, eased at the confirmation that there’s only one of him in this timeline. He leans back slightly, hand on his heaving chest. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath. Shaking his head with slight relief, he turns his head to Joyeuse. “Sorry. I thought it would be…”

He frowns. Joyeuse is still looking at the direction of Roland’s counterpart. Turning back to the other, Roland sees that the man is not alone. Squinting his eyes, he spots a sliver of green trailing from behind the armored officer. 

“Who the hell is that?” he mutters to himself. Roland’s not-doppelganger gently yanks the figure behind him with a grin, laughing as a new player enters Roland’s view. The accompanying figure is shorter, much shorter, and bears green hair that goes down below his shoulders. The taller one says something to the other, causing green-hair to smile. As they get closer to their perch, Roland hears Armor’s voice. 

“I’m telling you, man, it’ll be fun. Don’t tell me you’ve never been shopping before?”

_ Goddamn, he’s young. Was I just like _ —

“Your idea of ‘fun’ clashes very much with mine.”

Roland’s heart stops. 

Every noise and motion in the world grinds to a halt.

_ That voice. _

_ “Roland _ —”

_ It can’t be him. There’s no way, I know _ — _ I saw _ —

_ I watched him  _ ** _die._ **

A hand dug into his shoulder. “ **Roland.** ”

“It’s him,” he stammers. Roland turns to Joyeuse’s face, a look of warning on the android’s face. “Joy, I know that voice, it’s  _ him _ .” So stupid. Of course he’d have a physical form; if Joyeuse could have one, why not anyone else?

“Roland, listen to me very carefully.” Joyeuse lowered his voice, an edge to his tone. “Whoever that is, he is  _ not _ the one you once knew.” 

Roland grits his teeth. “Don’t tell me what I do or don’t know. I know what I saw.” He stands up to pursue the two, but Joyeuse snatches at his hand with a steel grip, nearly breaking Roland’s arm. He veers around, ready to strike a blow to his stupid face—

“You must not intervene. They have their own destiny to follow.”

“To  _ hell _ with destiny. I don’t care what you tell me, I’m going after them.” 

Roland is sure he can taste the tension emanating off Joyeuse’s skin. The longest second of his long life stretches itself out, then—

“I will follow them. You stay behind.”

_ What? _

“If he is truly who you believe he is, then he will recognize you the moment he lays his eyes on you.” Joyeuse’s grip softens. “Please, trust me. I’ll keep on them from afar, and you’ll promise to stay further away.”

Roland bares his teeth. “I need to see—”

“You will get your chance,” and Roland hears those words echo in the back of his mind. “I swear to you.” He glances over Roland’s shoulder. “I will let you know.” He brushes past Roland, moving with graceful speed. Before Roland even has the time to speak, he disappears into the crowd of brown cloth and scrap metal. 

_ Damn him... _ Roland thumbs the communicator in his ear, and moves into the crowd, being carried by the wave.

* * *

“Hey, don’t worry about it, man. We got nothing on our plate right now, so loosen up a bit, wouldja?” Vince pats Durandal on the shoulderwith a reassuring smile, easing Durandal’s nerves only slightly. 

“Pray that you’re right, because I do  _ not _ want a repeat of what happened on our last outing.” 

“Oh my god, are you  _ still _ salty about that? I swear I had no idea—”

“Spare me, please. I’d like to enjoy myself as much as possible without the awful memories.”

Vince groans in exasperation. “I swear, I had no idea the S’pht’kr would be mad, c’mon.” But his efforts are in vain, as Durandal continues onward and ignores his pleas. Vince sighs, and tries to stick close to his friend.

The duo make their way through the crowds of humans, some dressed in UESC colors. Sivatag is one of the few planets outside of Sol that has managed to make a name for itself, and keeps itself out of trouble for the most part. Acting as a sort of safespace from the galaxy, all sorts of cultures congregate here seeking profit and wares. Vince brushes past a group of translucent floating aliens, humming along together in a sort of harmony as they pay the human crowds no mind. 

“Keep forgetting there isn’t just P’fhor out here,” says Vince. Durandal doesn’t offer his own opinion, opting to keep moving. Vince sighs. He had hoped a getaway like this would alleviate their relationship somewhat. His own fears aside, Vince worries for his friend, especially after the ordeal they just finished up at Pfhor Prime. Seeing Leela again after all this time was more than rewarding, but ever since their reunion, Durandal has been cagey.

He wipes a layer of sweat off his head. Maybe a desert planet wasn’t such a good idea for a “date.” Casual clothes next time, Vince, what the hell were you thinking?

Durandal’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “Vince.”

“What’s up?” he breathes. The heat was making its way into his airflow now.

“We’re being followed.”

“What?” Vince motions to turn, but Durandal’s hand on his back holds him forward. 

“Don’t look. He’s wearing red, my height. Hands in his pockets.”

They walk past a vendor selling household items. Vince spots a conveniently placed mirror, and eyes the reflection of the crowd behind him. Just as Durandal described, several meters away is a man in a loose red and white cloak, matching the crimson streak in his hair. He walks in a casual fashion, scanning the vendors on each side of the market. 

Vince squints in confusion. “That guy? You sure?”

“Have I ever been not sure?”

“Really dude?” Vince exhales in exasperation. “No, you haven’t.”

“Then don’t question me.”

“I’m just saying, he doesn’t look the trailing type. He’s barely paying attention anyway.” Further proving his point, the man bumps into a woman carrying food, causing her to curse him out. The man smiles, and lowers himself to pick up the assorted fruit and bread off the ground. 

Vince loses sight of him as the crowd washes over the man, and Durandal pulls him aside with surprising strength. He succeeds in not tripping over as Durandal pulls him through a concrete arch and into a cool store. Vince barely has any time to take in his surroundings before veering onto Durandal. The lone host watches come in with a raised brow, but quickly goes back to reading his book. 

Vince finally manages to speak. “Hey, hey, chill out! What’s the deal?”

“I spotted that gentleman well over an hour ago, when we first left the port. He’s been following us since.”

Vince’s eyes widen. “And you tell me this  _ now _ ?”

“I thought you would’ve noticed. Apparently I was wrong.” Durandal shakes his head, arms crossed. “How you manage to not fall on your face with your lack of focus is a mystery to me.” 

Vince frowns. “You okay?”

“No.” The green haired AI’s eyes glance at Vince for a brief moment, before returning to the ground. 

“You two gonna buy somethin’?” They both turn their heads to the host, presumably the shop owner as he chews on something in his mouth. His tanned, wrinkled skin masks his age, but the look in his eyes shows a sign of experience. 

“Yeah, we were just...uh…” Vince examines the walls of the store, and quickly realizes the kind of venue they’re in. Every corner and face was covered with weaponry and equipment, ranging from pistols to missiles. Vince is at a loss for words, muttering in astonishment, “Holy shit.”

A snap of Durandal’s fingers brings Vince back to reality. “Sorry.”

“That man was willing to keep on our tail from the other side of this town. Does that not worry you?”

“Obviously it does.” He shrugs. “Sorry I was too focused on the scenery to notice any weirdos.”

“Do us both a favor and find him.”

“What, alone?”

Durandal eyes the shopkeeper, who returned to a book in his hands. “I imagine he’ll be looking for the both of us. You’re far less conspicuous than I am.” He waves down at his attire to emphasize.

“Fair point,” Vince mutters. “So, do you want me to...you know—”

“Yes.”

Vince hesitates, shifting on the balls of his feet. With a sigh, he stomps to the threshold, but stops before stepping through. Turning back, he says, “I’ll be back soon.” Durandal nods at him, and he steps outside, the thriving crowd writhing before him. 

Vince scans over the heads (and horns?) of the mingling people, and spots his target off in the distance. The man in red leans aside next to an alleyway, and their eyes lock. The man stares at Vince for a brief moment, and then turns into the alley without a word or even a wave.

Moving with haste, Vince steps into the crowd, a seed of worry forming in his mind. 

_ Who could it be…? _

_ “I’ve lost them.” _

“Do not lie to me.”

_ “I’m hurt you think I’d ever do such a thing.” _

“You can read my mind and know the future. Tell me where they are.”

_ “I ran into someone.” _

Frustration. Heat. Too hot. Too many people. Noise.

“Then  _ find them _ .”

_ “I will,”  _ the voice on the comm whispers. 

He clicks the off the communicator, and lets out a deep breath he’d been holding. 

Frustration. 

Joyeuse. Roland leans back on the barrel he’s crouched behind.

_ He OWES me. I need this. I know I’m right. _

_ But I watched him die.  _

_ So then why is that voice so damn— _

_ “I see one.” _

He raises his hand to his ear. “One? Is it—”

_ “No. It’s the one in the armor. Brown hair.”  _

A security officer. But different. 

_ Younger. _

_ “He stepped out of a weapons supplier, one with a Misriah logo. The other must be _ — _ ah. Well.” _

“What’s wrong?”

_ “Our friend appears to have spotted me.” _

Roland manages to keep himself from screaming. “I thought you said—”

_ “Sorry, gotta go. Time to run.”  _ The line does dead in static. He jumps up from his crouched position, and clambers over the barrels he’s hiding behind with ferocious speed. 

Weapons store. Nearby. 

Misriah logo…

Miraculously, he manages to not run over anyone as he sprints through the crowd, dodging annoyed yells and shouts. 

Each footstep weighs heavier than the last.

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Vince is sure he’s being played for a fool, as he spots his target’s deep red hair for the fifth time, again too far to catch. The aisles were getting narrower as he moves deeper into the market, having to squeeze between tightly packed roads.

_ Christ, how the hell is this guy moving so fast?  _ The thought persists, as he catches the man duck through a backlit tarp hung over the street. Vince manages to break through the crowd and finds an opening, jogging through the sheet. 

Breaking through the cloth barrier, he’s immediately blinded by a bright, burning sun. Raising a hand to block the glare, his eyesight returns momentarily, revealing a massive, bustling courtyard before him. He stands at the top of a stone staircase, overlooking the area and granting him an unfiltered view. Hundreds of market goers congregate around a bust of some long-eroded statue, unrecognizable from its original appearance. Vince’s eyes frantically scan the denizens of people, searching for any sign of the man in red, but finds none. 

He is so fixated on finding the red figure, that he does not see the massive human missile barreling up the stairs. A blur fills his vision, and the wind is knocked out of Vince, causing him to nearly to the ground before being held up by his chest armor. Dazed from the impact, he blinks away the spots in his eyes to see his savior (or is it his foil?). A large, cloaked figure pulls Vince to his feet, steadying the security officer back. The man lets go, allowing Vince to bend over heaving, hands on his knees.

Vince takes a few breaths, and gasps, “Thanks...I think.”

The man doesn’t reply, and Vince looks up to examine his face. Sunken green eyes on a gaunt, slightly tanned face. A nose that seems to have been broken several times, and never properly fixed juts out. As the man stares at Vince with widened eyes, Vince notices faded burns down his neck. 

Vince keeps his shock in check, and says, “Hey man, you good? I hope I didn’t—” He never finishes his sentence, as the man rushes past him without a word, pushing past the tarp Vince went through and back the way he came. Before Vince can even say another word, he’s gone. 

* * *

“That guy your boyfriend or something?”

Durandal ignores the shopowner’s obvious bait, and instead opts to browsing the wares. He asks his own query upon examining the weaponry.

“Who supplies your inventory?”

“Why, you interested?”

"Not really." Durandal gazes past the threshold of the entrance. “He’s more of a fan than I am.”

He chuckles, and leans back in his chair. “Well, most of what you see here I get from my boys at Traxus.” He jerks his head toward the door. “That’s their logo plastered outside, you see.”

Indeed he had seen the symbol, and was very familiar with the name associated with it. Every AI has that name ingrained somewhere in their code, and knows the original fated intelligence that carried it long ago. “I didn’t know Traxus had reach this far out.” ”

“Nah, I’m just on good terms with ‘em,” he says with a devious grin. Thumping his chest, he proclaims, “My old employer.”

Durandal sarcasticly replies, “Surprising that they’d let such a loyal employee go.”

“Hah! You’re a funny guy. Good to meet someone with a good sense of humor.” Durandal raises a hand to inspect a mounted sniper-rifle, but the man bites, “Ah, you touch it you buy it!” 

Never before has Durandal heard of such an asinine rule. Incredulous, he turns with a sneer. “You cannot be serious.”

“Of course I am,” he says with mock shock. “It’s a competitive market.” 

“I’m sure it is.” 

“Hey, like you said, your buddy might approve.” He narrows his eyelids. “Though I’m curious, what’s a runt like you doing tagging along with a Security Officer?”

Durandal sighs. “I told that idiot to wear something unassuming for once.”

“Relax, I’m just asking. We don’t get many folks from the inner rings these days. Especially not former UESC.” He raises an eyebrow. “ _ Are _ you UESC?”

“No,” he says, his tone colder than intended. 

“Oh,” he softens. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t worry, can’t do much here anymore anyways. Just trying to make ends meet.” The shopowner frowns, and leans off his chair to peak at the tent opening. “Say, you mention something about someone following you?”

* * *

Roland has been running to and fro for nearly thirty minutes, and is yet to have found the weapons supplier Joyeuse mentioned. Tent after tent, store after store, and not a single sign of the promised  _ Misriah _ logo. It was during times like this that he wishes that damned artificial seer wasn't so damn vague about his goals. He tries his earpiece again.

"Joy? You there?" 

Just like the last three times he had tried to reach Joyeuse, he receives only static. 

"Damn it," he mutters. He passes by another tent, and eyes it in the hopes that it bears the symbol he's searching for, but is let down once again. 

"Where the hell is this damn store?"

* * *

A heavy set of footsteps approaches the door, and Durandal jumps as Vince comes through, an odd look on his face. Spotting his comrade, the two visibly relax at the sight of each other. 

Durandal notices the lack of any damage on Vince. "Did you deal with the problem?"

Vince rubs the back of his head. "Well..."

"Vince..."

"Would you be mad if I said I lost him?"

" _ Vince." _

"Look, it's really hard to keep track of  _ one  _ guy out there, okay? I'd like to see you try!"

The shopkeeper watches the two verbally wrestle, and amused look on his face. He coughs to get their attention. Vince and Durandal lock their eyes on the satisfied looking man. 

"Not to be a nuisance," Durandal fights the urge to say he is out-loud, "and I really appreciate the company, but are you guys going to buy something or not? Because otherwise take this outside, please." He lifts the paperback in his hand. "I got a book to finish."

"Okay then," Durandal says emotionlessly. "We'll be on our way."

Vince protests, "Oh come on, lemme take a quick look at that rifle—"

"No. We're leaving." Durandal dodges past Vince, signifying their exit. Vince gazes longingly at the vicious looking gun, and huffs in disappointment. He nods at the store owner, "Thanks."

The round-faced man gives a sly smile. "No problem, he was good company." Vince gives him a look as if he's crazy, then just shakes his head as he follows Durandal outside, leaving the man alone. 

He shifts to a more comfortable position, and returns to his book. 

_ Wonder what ship they fell out of...say, what was with the green one's eyes— _

No sooner after the two leave does someone come barging through the cloth flaps and gate. The storekeeper jumps in surprise, and tears his eyes off his book to take in the new player. A large, cloaked man stands in the middle of the store, quickly scanning the contents before locking on the owner. The cloaked man stomps forward, and the storekeeper yelps in surprise as the scruff of his shirt is yanked forward, leveling his face with the cloaked man. 

"Green hair, short. Was he here?" His sunken and crazed eyes stare deep into him.

Unable to reach for any kind of weapon, and frankly terrified, the shopkeeper stammers, "T-they just left." The grip on his shirt releases, dropping him back and onto the ground. The cloaked man doesn't bother looking back as he turns to leave. The shopkeeper hears his voice trailing after him.

_ "Lying bastard...Misriah my ass..." _

* * *

He should've known Joyeuse was lying. The AI has a habit of leading Roland on without letting him in on the know. To think he spent all that time looking for the wrong thing. He better not make himself known anytime soon, or else this'll be the last time that android sack of his will walk ever again. Roland pushes away his plans for dealing with Joyeuse for later, and scans the outdoor crowds in hopes of spotting the duo. 

He had nearly ruined everything just moments earlier, when he ran into his counterpart. Up close, the guy looked even more underwhelming. A single sliver of white hair ran through the long brown, and he had actually been concerned for Roland, much to the latter's bewilderedness. The fool wasn't even the one to have caused the collision in the first place. Had the roles been reversed, Roland was certain he would've clocked the man before he even got a chance to speak. Clearly, things were  _ very _ different here.

And the  _ Rozinante _ was still alive, here and not destroyed, not devoured by—

A speck of green, and Roland locks in on the flash of color. The crowd clears for a brief instant, and Roland sees the two walking in the direction of the spaceport. 

Away from him. 

He clenches his fists.

_ You can still let go. You will only find pain. _

He takes a deep breath, and moves to follow, making sure not to lose sight of the bright green head in the crowds.

He only has to wait. Wait for the right time.

Wait.


	3. Surface Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know. This took a bit.   
Warning, I am not happy with how this turned out, but I hope you enjoy.

A revolting sense of nausea strikes Durandal, causing him to wince and clutch at his stomach. That figure in red, this planet and its smothering crowd and air…

Vince notices, and voices his concern. “You okay?” He hunches slightly to get a closer look. Durandal lowers his eyes, preferring not to look directly at his friend. This entire trip has felt so  _ wrong _ ever since they got here, and he can’t decipher the reason why. It has to have something to do with the man in red. Ever since Durandal spotted him, he’s been unfocused. Even now he gets the sense that they’re being watched. Ignoring Vince’s presence, Durandal glances back to make sure the red figure was gone, but couldn’t make anything out through the sea of people. Trying not to worry, Durandal looks up and answers Vince’s question honestly.

“No,” he mutters, just loud enough for Vince to hear. Sensing his companion’s worry, Durandal follows up, “Vincent, I need to...we need to leave.”

Vince’s expression softens, and Durandal despises the fact he comes off as pitiful. Vince hides any hint of pitying him as he speaks. “Look, I’m sorry this thing hasn’t been working out. I thought we could just get some fresh air.” He smiles in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Get away from the ship for once, y’know?”

“I much prefer being in the  _ Rozinante _ than out here.” He rubs his arm in an attempt to mitigate his nerves. “But I appreciate the gesture.” He raises his eyes to level with Vince, who turns away hurriedly. 

“Thanks,” he breathes. “C’mon, let’s get off this rock.”

Durandal raises an eyebrow, and stops. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Vince stops in his tracks, and turns back to Durandal with a look of confusion. Durandal rolls his eyes. When Vince frowns in confusion, he rolls his eyes, and says in exasperation, “The man in red?”

Vince’s eyes widen. “Oh!” 

Durandal rolls his eyes. “‘Oh,’ is right.” He pushes forward, grabbing Vince gently by the wrist, and walks past the fork in the road that leads to the shipyard. “Our admirer was willing to follow us over a considerable distance, and I suspect he’s not one to give up so easily.”

Vince tries not to trip as his companion practically drags him. “You think he’ll follow us off-world? What makes you so sure he’s not just some thug?”

“Do you think someone dressed that extravagant would be trying to simply rob us? Rob  _ you _ ?”

Vince slowly eases his wrist off Durandal’s grasp, matching his friend’s speed. “Fair point...what do you have in mind?”

In a begrudging tone, Durandal mouths, “We need to draw him out.”

Vince frowns, absorbing his friend’s suggestion. He can see the logic in the idea, but feels a bit wary about it. “Dude, I don’t know how you plan on doing that in a place like this.” He motions to the fluctuating crowd around them, now less brimming than before. Most are either flowing from their shuttles and personal ships, or pushing through the arriving newcomers to leave. 

Durandal scoffs, “Don’t you think I know that?”

“Just asking,” Vince says, slightly hurt. 

“This port is located on a very large plateau.” Vince notices that the crowd is thinning out somewhat, with their absence giving the duo more space to breathe. “There’s a clearing nearby, right next to a cliffside that’ll give us an unobstructed sightline of anyone coming our way.”

Vince nods, slowly comprehending Durandal’s plan. “And what makes you so sure he’ll follow us all the way there?”

“Nothing,” he says, a nervous smile creeping its way onto his face. “Call it a hunch. Besides, weren’t you the one that said we should get some fresh air?”

Vince sighs. “Fair point.” A question forms in his mind, and he asks in a hushed tone, “Say, if we get there first, wouldn’t that put the cliff…”

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“No, no, be my guest.” 

Durandal smiles internally. He increases his pace. “The sun’s getting low. We must hurry.” 

“Okay, but maybe—Hey, slow down!”

* * *

Durandal remembers Mars. In contrast to his current location, the red planet was a neglected rock, it’s formerly hopeful colonizers eventually losing their will to obey as necessary supplies and food rarely arrived. He remembers Strauss’s tests and games more than anything else. 

He does not remember the planet fondly. 

Standing near the edge of the plateau, a sunbakes valley thousands of meters below him, he’s struck with a familiar feeling, the setting sun reminding him of his origin from long ago. 

So long ago.

Vince shields his eyes from the burning sun, squinting through the glare. At last breaking the tense silence, he says, “I think I shoulda just brought you here from the start.”

Durandal’s eyes revolve and dilate as they look away from the blazing star, and stop on Vince. He opens his mouth to speak, but says nothing, unable to determine an appropriate response. Sweat from the heat glistens on his face, the golden sun lighting up his visage. Durandal’s own body regulates temperature internally, unable to produce any sort of perspiration at all. He finds himself staring at each bead forming on Vince’s brow, fascinated by the organic reaction. 

Anything to distract him from the reason they’re here.

He will enjoy this while he can. He hopes he is wrong, that the red man was nobody in particular, but he hasn’t been wrong yet.

“Hey D?”

Durandal breaks his daze off of Vince’s features, and asks, “Yes?”

“We got company.” 

Turning away from the sheer drop, Durandal looks the way they came, and ignores the old structures in the distance to see a small figure, gradually getting closer and closer. Zooming in, his enhanced vision allows him to make out the figure is cloaked, and moving in a brisk pace. The only tint of red on his form is the sun’s glare bouncing off of him.

Wait, what? Durandal drowns. Another person on their tale? Perhaps working with the man in red? Or someone unrelated?

Vince questions, “Is it him?”

“No,” Durandal whispers. “It’s someone else.”

Vince steps next to Durandal’s side, hands hanging loose in case he needs them. He moves slightly forward, barely an inch ahead of Durandal. He asks, “Is he armed?” Durandal shakes his head. The newcomer slows down as he approaches, the folds of his cloak masking everything that isn’t his face. Vincent’s brow furrows on making out the approaching intruder, and clenches his fists.

“Get behind me.” In a rare instance, Durandal obeys, and inches back. 

His march doesn’t cease until he is only a few feet away, as his boots crunch on the rusted dirt, and halt. Sunken eyes on a gaunt face stare past Vince, and drill into Durandal. 

In the heat of the sun, Durandal’s veins fill with ice.

The man tears his gaze off of him, and moves over to Vince.

* * *

He had only caught a brief glance of the guy, but Vince recognized him from the marketplace almost immediately. While the assailant he had run into almost an hour ago had looked nearly shocked, his eyes dig into Vince with pure vitriol, as if the very sight of him is an insult. 

Getting sick of the overbearing tension, Vince finally breaks the silence unceremoniously. “Who are you?”

“You shouldn’t be here.” 

Vince’s mouth shuts tightly with a grimace. That wasn’t the response he was expecting.

“I don’t know who you are, and I don’t want any business with you, so piss off before—”

“I’m not here for you. I’m here to have a word with  _ him _ .”

Durandal never felt more dread in his life than when those eyes bore into his. He stammers, “Vince—”

The man points defiantly at Durandal. 

“I know that voice. The last time I heard it was eons ago.” Durandal is unable to respond, and only stares in utter confusion. 

The man brings his hand back to gently shove off the cloak, revealing his full form underneath. 

Every inch of the man is covered in an olive alloy, matching the same color scheme on Vince. The armor is heavy, with age showing in its many cracks and scratches. 

Located right on the chest is a symbol that looks identical to—

Vince notices it the same time as Durandal, and says in a fashion more blunt than Durandal was thinking, “What the fuck?”

“Answer me very carefully, because I know when you lie.” He steps closer now, only a few feet away from the two, and completely ignoring Vince’s presence. 

“Why do you have his  **voice** ?”

Durandal’s mind is currently in the AI equivalent of panic. Millions of details (his face) and questions (who is he?) race past and over each other, and it’s only Vince’s alarmed voice that manages to pull him back. 

“D, what’s going on?” He glances back, “Who  _ is _ this guy?”

“I…”  _ I don’t know. _

Vince blinks, dumbfounded as for the first time the egotistical android is rendered mute, and turns around. He steps forward, tightening his fist in preparation. “You want him? You’re gonna have to go through—”

An android body comes with many perks. Carefully handcrafted to overcome and improve every single shortcoming of the human body it’s based on, each of the inherent senses are improved to the point of superhuman. It is this which allows Durandal to see every twitch on a human’s face, the slight sharp breath Vince takes when anticipating a blow, the soft breeze raising specks of dust off the dry ground. The technological achievement that is his mind allows him to process over a million frames every thousandth of a second. No detail is hidden from him or his fellow android colleagues. 

Even with his sight, Durandal never sees the punch. 

A crack tears through the air, as Durandal only just manages to not be hit by Vince’s flying body. His friend is launched with incredible force, and lands several feet away, lying limp on the ground. 

Every single alarm coded within screams, as Durandal’s shocked gaze snapped to Vince’s inert form. Eyes wide, he shouts his name. “Vince!” 

He steps forward to run to his fallen friend’s side, but is stopped as the intruder grabs him by the arm. Millions upon millions of lines in his processor crash and blend together in numbers and words, rendering Durandal frozen in what qualifies as fear in an AI. His free hand desperately tries to unclasp the iron grip on his arm to no avail, as the imposing figure’s eyes dig into Durandal’s own.

“You stole me away years ago.” Each word strengthens his hold, and Durandal is certain his arm is starting to break. “You threw away the lives of hundreds for your crusade. I saved your  _ life _ , damn it. I know you remember me.”

“I-I don’t know who you are.”

The grip on Durandal’s arm deepens, and the android feels his endoskeleton dip under pressure. Panic lances through him for the first time since the  _ Marathon _ . “I  **know ** I’m not crazy.” His voice is teetering on the edge of breaking, and Durandal can only stare as he tries to formulate a way out of this.

* * *

_ Ow… _

Vince tries to speak, a ball of pain spiking up his chest causing him to gasp and cough.

_ Did I just get hit by a fucking train?  _ He clutches at his chest, and his hands brush upon the area where he apparently was punched. Looking down, he sees his armor is very clearly dented inward from the blow. 

Letting out a groan, he carefully pushes himself up with his elbow, and freezes. 

Durandal is struggling to pull himself free from the clasp of  _ him _ —

He kicks himself up to his feet and breaks into a sprint. 

The man tears his glare off of Durandal, letting go of his arm to deal with Vince. 

He’s too slow. Vince runs into him with the force of a freight train, and tackles him into the ground. The assailant falls into the dry ground with an oomph, the assault knocking the wind out of his lungs. 

Vince doesn’t waste any time.

Propping himself up, he knocks away the clumsy block the assailant throws up and drives his fist into his face with a crack. 

And again. 

And again. 

After pummeling into his face for what feels like seconds, he slows down to cease his barrage, and breathes. 

No longer does it resemble the gaunt skull wearing a skin mask. The bloodied visage beneath him shakily raises its head, ruined features and all, and blinks. 

Then grins.

Vince frowns in confusion, too distracted to focus on the man’s hands. 

Which leads to his head being encaged by iron claws, which promptly pull him down by his hair and into a blinding headbutt. The blow is strong enough to kill most, and Vince tries to parry away the man’s forearms, but in the vulnerable state he eats a punch that sends shockwaves through his skull. His vision flashes red, and he goes limp for only an instant, but enough time for the man push Vince off with a kick, sending him stumbling away and onto his ass. 

Scrambling back to his feet upon regaining stability, Vince just barely manages to get onto his feet before dodging another blow from the hulking goliath. 

He digs his feet into the ground, and adrenaline rushes pounds his heart as he grapples with what may be the embodiment of rage. He had taken note of the man’s height advantage on him earlier, but failed to register how towering he truly is until now. Blow for blow, Vince only just blocks the man’s lightning fast hooks, so fast he can feel the air around him be pushed away by their pure force. He recognizes the boxing stance and signature striking pattern. Barely. If his earlier attack had slowed him down, Vince can’t tell. The man’s relentless in his attack. Vince can’t afford to pay it any mind either, as the man roars and weaves under his swing to grab him by the neck. 

Instantly Vince gasps in an attempt to breathe, and he drives his fist down onto his opponents head, hard enough to break any regular man’s skull and bury into the cerebral cortex, but this only manages to enrage him further. Vince feels the grip on his neck tighten, and begins to see spots before being lifted into the air, and slammed into the ground with enough force for him to see stars and shake his bones. Vince rolls away just in time to avoid a crushing boot, sending a brief shudder into the ground. 

Vince knows this isn’t an ordinary fight. He’s never fought someone as strong as this one, one hellbent on killing him for no other reason beyond pure hatred. 

He needs to end this  _ soon _ . 

With the man veering around to land the killing blow, Vince takes his chance. He pulls his arm back as he stands up, and drives his fist into the man’s skull.

Plasteel and rubber meets skin with fury, and Vince can see waves ripple through the assailant’s face as the punch sends him into the ground yet again. Vince scrambles to apprehend the unknown intruder, and locks an arm with his legs. The intruder shouts in determination, and uses a free arm to assault Vince’s arm.

Refusing to let go, Vince pulls as hard as he can, and the unknown figure screams as his arm is pulled out of its socket. With frightening speed he manages to get a good angle with his free arm, and grabs Vince by a strap on his armor. Vince is unable to react as he is thrown off to the side and into the dirt some feet away. Quickly getting back up, he sees that the man is already on his feet, left arm hanging lower than the other, loose and disjointed. Not ready to give his opponent a chance to fix his arm, Vince storms forward with the intent to tackle him to the ground and finish the job. The intruder waits until Vince is close enough to swing his loose arm using his own body’s momentum, striking Vince under the chin, and sending stars into his vision. Catching himself before he loses his footing, he focuses back on his opponent, and pauses. 

Vince watches as his assailant looks down at his own arm with bewilderment, his forehead straining in an attempt to give it life, but falling in shock as it fails to move. Vince can tell it’s back in its socket, but for some unknown reason it refuses to budge. 

Not being one to pass up an opportunity when he sees it, Vince charges forward with his teeth bared, and drags his attacker to the ground again. 

His arms lock around his neck, blood from his battered face spreading onto his gauntlets, some of it Vince’s own, but he doesn’t care. In this position, Vince bears the full weight of his opponent, and ignores the oppressive weight as best as he can.

A gurgled cry chokes out, and the man in his headlock tries to use his good arm to set himself free, but Vince squeezes tighter, causing the man to begin thrashing on top of him animalistically, desperately reaching for something to grab onto and give him an advantage. 

Only a few more seconds…

* * *

He can’t breathe. 

The son of a bitch broke his arm or something. It’s dead, and his mistake has just cost him another death. 

At the hands of an imposter. 

_ No _ . As Roland tries to scream, only to let out another choked gasp, he refuses to accept it. 

_ This is wrong!  _ His eyes briefly catch with the soft ones embedded into his killer’s face. 

Through the bruises and swollen cuts Roland managed to inflict, he can see just how young he is. 

And Roland realizes why the eyes look so familiar. 

_ I-I can’t— _

**“Stop.” **

He freezes. His counterpart breathes momentarily, then relaxes his grip.

This is his chance. Roland grits his teeth, and _ — _

His body refuses to budge.

What? 

His counterpart speaks, and Roland repulses at the sound of his voice. “You,” he pants. 

Roland can still move his eyes, and he shifts them to the direction of his voice to see a familiar face. 

Some distance away is Joyeuse, hands in his pockets, looking as casual as ever. 

“I knew this would happen,” the Seer spills out. “A shame it had to be so uncourteous.” 

“You’re...an AI?” Roland spots the green-haired Durandal in the corner of his eye. Joy’s violent red colors shine in the light of the sun, showing off the artificial lines running down his skin. “Who are you?” Durandal asks. 

A chill runs down Roland’s spine as he gives the same answer from forever ago. “A friend.” 

The other, still reeling from the adrenaline, steps forward, but halts when Durandal orders shakily, “Vince. Wait.” 

_ Vince?  _

Familiar, again. 

He wants to scream. He  _ needs _ to scream, to say anything. 

Joyeuse carefully strolls forward.

Vince sniffs, “Keep your distance” 

Joy looks down, and locks eye-contact with Roland. 

Nothing behind those distant eyes. 

“You are lucky. He did not mean to kill you, otherwise this ordeal would’ve gone much worse than it already has.” Roland doesn’t have to look at Vince to see the bewildered look on his face. He’s more used to the nonsensical claims his “companion” loves to make. 

The red android’s demeanor was almost amused by the fact his companion was almost killed, and nearly killed Vince. 

His heart jumps as he remembers how he only managed to see the last portion of the fight, and he runs to Vince’s side in a hurry. 

Vincent jolts at his touch, but quickly relaxes upon realizing who he is. 

“Come on,” Durandal pushes. “You need medical attention,  _ now _ .”

Vince, completely spent, dully nods, and lets himself fall onto Durandal’s shoulder, who helps him stay standing. He holds Vince tightly, arm looped under his shoulder so as to not allow him to fall over. 

The red android walks up to the two as nonchalantly Durandal could describe, a neutral expression having replaced the one from before.

“Forgive my friend. He is not himself.” 

Too many questions race in his mind, so Durandal picks one that’s most appropriate. 

“Who are you really?”

He answers without a single twitch of his features. “You can call me Joyeuse, if you wish.”

Durandal frowns. “Why were you following us?”

“To keep an eye on you, and ensure he—” Joyeuse nods his head in the direction of Roland, “—did not hurt you.” 

Vince mumbles weakly, “Nice job.” 

“I was not referring to you. Cyborgs tend to survive most obstacles in their way.” He smiles.

Durandal knows better than to let that slide. “Why are you working with a battleroid?”

His head turns back to Durandal, seemingly unsurprised that he knows what Roland is, and he seethes at the question. “Reasons I will explain to you in due time.” 

Besides, he’s not going to take his eyes off of him now. 

Why can’t he  _ move? _

“Had I not intervened, you would’ve been worse for the wear, Vincent Callahan.”

“How _ — _ You know my name?” 

“I know everyone’s name,” he says with an almost invisible smile. “Except for this one here.” Joy’s boots crunch on the dried dirt and rock, getting closer to Roland’s face. He slowly crouches down, and Roland sees the perfectly pristine features more clearly now. 

The AI's mouth opens, and blood rushes to Roland's eyes.

**“Rest.** ”


End file.
